


A Dance In Shadows

by SBlackmane



Series: Unrequited [4]
Category: Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Incest, Reaver is a Shmuck, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, The Hero is an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 12:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBlackmane/pseuds/SBlackmane
Summary: (The one where we learn the Hero may actually be an idiot. Her valiant efforts at intelligence are nonetheless applauded, however.)Adalia crashes Logan's party with intent to put the King of Albion down for good. But can she do it? Or will she give in to the desire that still courses through her like fire?





	A Dance In Shadows

     She was alive. She was in Bowerstone. She was the famed Hero of Albion, and she was in league with the Resistance. He spotted her in the crowd during Swift's execution in the company of a known traitor, Ben Finn, wanted for treason. She would show herself, he was sure of it. The bait had been set, and now it was a waiting game for Logan's catch.

     The party was Reaver's idea. He appealed to the King of keeping up appearances with some of Reaver Industries' investors. Logan had no idea who half these people were. Never paid enough attention to care. People who lined Reaver's pockets with coin, and in turn, filled the royal treasury, and in doing so, supplied the Crown with soldiers. 

     So it mattered little who they actually were, and in the case of anonymity, the sport of masquerades, everyone wore a mask, so even if some of the faces were familiar, they were yet hidden, and indistinguishable. It was a ploy. An opportunity to draw out some of the rebels if they would dare strike Logan at this point in the game. But there was one in particular Logan was interested in trapping. The Hero of Brightwall, she was called.

     There were maybe a hundred guests, but with added guard, the whole commons area of the castle was filled to the brim, armed soldiers around every corner, servants bustling about, and Albion's quaint manner of aristocracy wandering the dining hall and the combat room. It had been temporarily converted into a ballroom for the occasion, the usual display of weaponry removed. The rest of the castle was off limits however, particularly the war room, the throne room, the Royal chamber, and Logan's study, which were locked up tighter than a vault.

     Logan himself sat in the combat room, lounging near the fire, surveying the room. It was well into evening now, and some of the revelry was dying down to a feasible murmur along with the musicians playing, to which a few graced the floor with dance. He was sober, for a change, having not touched the drink in his hand, lest it be poisoned. He trusted his servants to know better than dare an attempt on his life, and he trusted his guard, but he didn't trust some of his guests. 

     Dressed in his usual royal attire, he was hard to miss, and he preferred it that way. He was the bait. The only thing out of place for him was the black mask he wore, partaking in the theme of the night. 

     A gentleman was chatting with a sultry maiden in a peacock feathered mask, an eyesore that matched her overbearingly green dress, mint, with deep evergreen trim and ribbons. Another was dancing with an older woman, twice his age, though the boy was too drunk to notice, and too interested in her money. The guitarist was strumming some indiscernible tune. The guests had horrifyingly nasal laughter at some joke at the far end of the room. The crowd parted.

     A woman in blue stepped into Logan's crosshairs.

* * *

     It was a stupid idea. But Adalia couldn't resist. 

     She'd spent too much time agonizing over that morning. The tears still stained her cheeks, though hidden behind a touch of powder and rouge when she dressed for the party. She saw Swift get shot, right in front of her, so did Ben. It happened so fast, neither of them were graced with the oppurtunity to put a stop to Logan's display. It hurt, so badly. Swift was one of the last men alive that knew her father personally, besides Walter. 

     And now he was dead. She saw his lifeless eyes when she closed hers. Dead. Like Elliot. Dead, like the people of Albion would likely be. Any hope for Logan was gone. She could see it when their eyes met. He was making it his mission to break her resolve, pushing her past the edge she'd carved out for herself. She had her limit. This was it.

     Honorable or not, Logan must die, and she wanted that for herself, if no one else.

     She didn't tell Walter, Ben, or even Page what she was up to. She couldn't be sure any of them would agree with her idea. It was too risky. Walking into the lion's den, so to speak, with Reaver, and Logan's guard between herself and any means of escape. As far as they were concerned, she'd made her way to Millfields to look into a missing person. They were under the impression that she was tying up some loose ends before embarking on her journey to Aurora.

     She left out the back entrance to the Resistance Headquarters, as if she were going to travel east to Mourningwood through the sewers, and then head to Millfields in a discreet manner. She didn't want to draw attention to their base of operations, and she didn't want the others to catch onto her true intention. When she exited the sewers she doubled back to the market, and managed to break into the dress shop that had already closed for the day. She hated resorting to criminal activity, but she was already branded a traitor. What did it matter now? She made quick with lifting a dress from the shelf, a mask, and some other feminine wares, and made out through the back like a bandit.

     She couldn't access the Sanctuary, for then Jasper would likely be onto her scheme. As far as he was concerned, she was well on her way to Millfields as well. Poor Spark had to stay behind, for if he was seen accompanying her to the palace, she'd be found out for sure. He didn't like that too well. He barked and whined, but he was a good dog, and stayed put when she instructed him to. 

     She entered the castle grounds through the Catacombs, and intended to go out the same way. It was the only way to enter the party with no invitation, and keep her pistol, tucked under her skirt. It shouldn't have been much trouble at all to wander into the kitchens and pass off as a drunken guest that lost her way in the garden.

     So far, so good, and she wasn't dead yet. Heaving a heavy sigh, she entered the foyer, steeling her nerves, scanning her surroundings, changing her normally confident, masculine posture to something more sultry and feminine. Then she took a deep breath, and entered the den of the beast she aimed to slay, once and for all.

* * *

     She spotted him easily. 

     There was a break in the crowd in the ballroom, not long after she entered, and at the far end, she could see him lounging in a chair, drink in hand, looking rather sinister in a black mask. Though it could've been a decoy. Would he do that? She didn't know, and highly doubted he would leave himself so exposed if he suspected an assassin lurking. Could she take the chance?...No, it was him alright. This was no decoy. There was no replicating that sneer of his, no matter how one tried. 

     She glanced away, pretending her interest was in the party, and not the vile man on the other side of the room. Reaver was nowhere to be found, surprisingly, though she worried little if the scoundrel recognized her. She wasn't armed to the teeth, like most would expect a Hero to be, and without her gauntlets, she looked no more assuming than any other guest. A young man appeared at her left side, a drink in each hand, rakish grin on his smug face. She nodded politely and accepted the drink, though it never touched her lips. She needed to stay sober. 

     She pretended to listen to his boorish conversation with a fake smile, while her eyes flitted about, taking note of each guard and their place in the room, calculating how long they would take to apprehend her if she drew her pistol from under her skirts, aimed and fired it at the King.

     She wondered if they would apprehend her if she succeeded in killing him. After all, how many of these people truly enjoyed Logan's rule? Sure, the lot of them, people like Reaver, got fat and rich while others suffered, but still, they were probably taxed to all end, same as anyone else. Logan was a greedy man. How many of them would actually stand aside and let her rule in his stead? Some of them were gossiping about the Hero of Brightwall they heard about, some of them quite impressed with said individual.

     Was she worried? Yes. Yes she was. She was a Hero, but even Heroes had their limits. She didn't come there because she thought she could take on the entire royal guard single handedly. Otherwise, what would be the point in gathering an army for the Resistance? She came there because she was tired of playing fair. Tired of being honorable while Logan murdered her friends.

     No, she couldn't shoot him outright then and there. What if she hit one of the guests? There were too many people bustling about to get a clean shot. She'd have to get him alone, somehow.

     She glanced back to Logan's chair. It was empty.

     She searched the crowd. Where had he gone? And how did she miss him? Did he suspect something and tip the guards? She slowly turned about, peeking over the crowd of masked faces, searching for that familiar purple tunic and jet black hair, but she couldn't see him, and so she ignored the gentleman haplessly flirting with her and left his side, in search of the King.

* * *

     He almost dismissed her at first. Dressed in a powder blue gown with royal blue trim. As fancy as the next woman, but something about her struck him as odd. The way she walked, the way she carried herself, and the way she seemed so disinterested in the idiot trying to get her attention, as she scanned the room behind a mask. She was attractive, no doubt, more so than the other colorful women scattered about. Then she turned his direction and his heart faltered in his chest. Those lips. There was no mistaking them. He'd recognize that perfect mouth of hers anywhere, for he often dreamed of it pressed to his own in feverish kiss. 

     It was her. It had to be.

     He rose from his seat and carefully made his way through the crowd. All the while staying out of her line of sight as he watched. Like a large cat in the wilderness, stalking its prey.

     There were so many things he wanted to do to her, so many things he could do at that moment. The most immediate thought was calling attention to her, having the guards grab her, and drag her to Bowerstone jail, for being a traitor. Pulling out his pistol and shooting her in the face? Too easy. Heroes could die, after all, and she would bleed out on the floor, before his subjects, with all of Albion's most powerful to see. No. It was far too easy. He wanted to see just what she was made of. Just how strong she was, just what she was capable of, if given the chance.

     And there were other things he wanted from her, besides her blood. 

     He wanted to hold her again. Rewind the clock back to the night they shared, and pretend nothing else mattered but them. Ignore the world, ignore the threat looming over their heads that waited in darkness, and just stay that way. He believed wholeheartedly that though they'd made enemies of one another, ultimately they belonged together. They would all die soon enough if he failed them, wouldn't they? So what did it truly matter? If he failed to protect Albion, all would be lost, and none of it would make a difference. So why not have her all to himself, if he could? Why not convince her to stop this fruitless rebellion and come home to him?

     He would certainly try.

* * *

     Adalia searched the crowd for a tall, dark haired figure, but saw nothing. He'd left his seat, at the far end of the room, and she didn't see which direction he went. Shit. He'd found her out, hadn't he? She glanced at the guards nearby, expecting to see Logan getting their attention, pointing her out in the crowd. But they were still at their posts, and hardly paid her any mind at all. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a tap on her shoulder, every nerve suddenly on edge. She slowly turned to see the tall, dark haired figure she was looking for. Stand right in front of her. Staring her down. Then he extended his hand.

     "May I have this dance?" Logan asked her, quietly, and politely, with all the manner of a gentleman. 

     "Of course," she answered, twisting her accent a little, doing her best impression of Sofia, with her lilt voice. She accepted his hand, heart racing in her chest. Of all the people that asked her to dance, it had to be him? And but of course he could be polite to a stranger, but he couldn't be so kind to his own family?

     He lead her out onto the floor, and pulled her close, much closer than she would ever be comfortable with. It sent shivers down her spine when he slid his arm around her waist, resting his hand on her lower back, leading her into the song that began to play. A waltz. One she swore she'd heard before. Perhaps at a party they'd attended in their youth? Before their-her father died? Was it her father, or his? Oh, what was she doing thinking about that at a time like this? Their differences that made them seem hardly like family at all? She was missing steps. She hoped he didn't notice.

     "You seem familiar," he said. "Have we met before, my dear?"

     "Oh, uh, no, Your Majesty," she said.

     "Hmm, I could've sworn we had. I was certain you'd been here before."

     "No, but I-um, I've seen your picture. On posters, sir."

     "Ah, I see. So tell me then, beautiful stranger, am I as terrible as my posters have me made to be?" he asked, with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

     _Try ten times worse_.

     "No," she said, pretending to be shy. "I actually think you're quite lovely, Your Majesty," she lied. "You're a swell dancer too."

     "As well you are, I see," he said. "I swear, I cannot remember how or why, but I'm certain we have met before. Though, surely I would remember someone as beautiful as you."

     Her face felt hot, and she was certain she was blushing. Funny, that though she hated him, she still felt quite complimented by his silken words. He was certainly charming when he wanted to be.

     "Thank you," she said. "I-I must say, Your Highness, from what I can see, you are...much more handsome than your posters."

     They broke for a moment as he twirled her around, then held her closer when they reconnected in the waltz, and it felt eerie, to be so close to him like this. And the entire time, she was planning in her head, just how to get him away from the crowd, so that she could pull her pistol and fire...He smelled of brandy and cologne, his head dipped to her neck, and he held her even closer, quite possessively, and for a moment, memories sprung to mind of the night they shared. His drunken stumbling into her room...Every illicit detail of his hands on her skin. She shuddered.

     "Let's get out of here," he whispered in her ear, and she swallowed nervously. Yes, of course, get him alone. Perfect. But...well, fuck. The way he said that. She knew exactly what was going through his head. Exactly what he wanted, with the way he spoke so huskily.

     "You sure that's not rude, to skip out on your own party, Your Majesty?" she asked, attempting to hide the nervousness in her voice, or how uncomfortable he made her feel. 

     "They'll do just fine without us, darling," he purred, just before the final bars of the waltz, and he then pulled her from the room, leading her out into the hall. 

     It was a terribly long and silent stroll through the corridor, then up the stairs, turning left, headed toward the Royal chamber. Adalia's heart lept. She'd get him alone alright, but as soon as that door closed, she had no doubt that Logan would put his slimy hands all over her, and try to have his way with her. She'd have to take that into account. Though maybe she could turn that to her advantage, catch him with his guard down. And his trousers. How embarrassing, but he deserved it.

* * *

     She certainly put on a good act, he had to admit. It was exciting to watch his sweet little flower feed him a false accent, and false pleasantries. As if she had no idea he suspected her. But he did, and undoubtedly knew what she intended to do. She intended to charm him into his quarters, catch him completely unaware, and likely pull a dagger from her sleeve. He couldn't be sure exactly where under that dress a weapon was hidden, but he knew one was there. She came there to assassinate him. That had been her plan, he assumed, right from the start.

     It made sense, to disappear from the castle, gather strength, and allies, people to stand behind her and her claim to the throne after she dispatched of him. To bide her time, until the opportune moment to strike. But, what she failed to realize was just how transparent she was, just how obvious. Calling him handsome? Complimenting him in such a way, and so willingly following him to his chamber, rather than find an excuse to stay at the party? Showering him with any small amount of adoration was a dead giveaway. There wasn't a woman in Albion that would do that without getting paid first.

     All he knew was that his precious Adalia, disguised as a masked stranger, was following him to his bedchamber, allowing herself to be locked inside with him. And he was loving every second of this thrilling encounter.

     She glanced about the room behind her mask, taking it all in, as if she'd never been in that room before. Still keeping up the facade, though they were finally alone, and she could drop the act. She was nervous, it seemed, and hesitant. Having second thoughts, maybe. She turned away from him, as he unstrapped his scabbard, and set it aside. She froze completely still when he came up behind her and nuzzled her neck, slipping his arm around her waist, filling his nostrils with her intoxicating scent. While she wore some nameless musk perfume on her skin, her hair, on the other hand, smelled different. It smelled like roses.

     "Per-perhaps you would like me to pour us a drink, Your Majesty?" she asked, her accent reaching a nervous height, and he chuckled.

     "Having second thoughts, are we?" he asked in her ear, letting his hands rise up and cup her bodice, making her breath falter.

     "No, I simply thought you might like to get comfortable," she answered. Her breath quickened just a touch when he placed soft kisses on her collar, and shoulder. 

     "Is that so?" he groaned, nipping her skin, pressing her against him, reaching down the front of her to grope between her legs.

     "There's no reason to get ahead of ourselves when we have all night," she said, and he smiled. Reaching around, he felt along her thigh, and then stopped, when something solid came within reach. "Shit," he heard her whisper, and he huffed with laughter, bending to yank up her skirt, pulling out her pistol, then whirling her around to face him, as he cocked it back and aimed it at her pretty face.

     "You had so many opportunities, darling, and you wasted every single one of them," he said to her. "I'm rather disappointed. That was a little too easy, Adalia."

     "I-I think you have me mistaken for-"

     "Drop the act, darling," he spat. "In what world would I _not_ think it was you? Hmm?" 

     She fumed, angry, fearful, like a cornered fox, chest rapidly rising and falling, briefly drawing his attention to it, enticing as it was. Every bit of her just as alluring as it was prior to leaving Bowerstone. Though just a bit more toned, agile, and adept. And she had a scar on her shoulder; a thin white line, barely visible, but he never remembered it being there before. He bit his lip, and tossed her pistol to the side, aiming to snatch her up and devour that mouth of hers...Something he should not have done.

     As soon as the pistol dropped to the floor nearby with a thud, Adalia seized the opportunity to shove him, then kick, followed by backhanding him to the floor. She went for the gun, but he managed to grab her by the ankle, tripping her, and with an 'oof', she hit the floor. She scrambled for her gun, so Logan grabbed her ankles and drug her back. She let out a vicious snarl and tried to kick him loose, but he was already crawling toward her, then straddling her, pressing down on her with all his weight.

     "You're a lot stronger than I remember," he grunted, atop of her, just before she swung both legs and wrapped them around him, throwing him off with all her impressive strength, sending him tumbling sideways. He rushed to his feet, only to find a gilded sidearm aimed at his chest. "You truly are a Hero," he said breathlessly, riled with anger, but also impressed by her, and enamored. Very much so.

     "So, what gave me away, brother?" she asked, and he chuckled.

     "Your mouth, little sister," he answered truthfully. "There's no mistaking it. I dream of it quite often. Soft and perfect, just like the rest of you."

     "You're demented," she spat.

     "If I am, it was only because you made me this way, darling. So why not end this ridiculous game we play, and come home? There's no reason for us to fight."

     "No reason?!" she huffed.

     He stepped closer, and watched as she gripped her pistol tightly, shaking a little, clenching her fist, sneering at him, and at any moment she'd fire off a shot. One more step and he was a dead man. But he should've been dead already. Why did she delay?

     "What are you waiting for, Adalia?" he asked. "Is this not why you've come? To put a bullet in my head and take Albion for yourself?"

     At that she aimed higher, and he stared down the barrel. It was right between his eyes. A bullet to the head would kill him instantly. But she wouldn't shoot him. He couldn't understand why. Unless some part of her truly loved him still.

     "Having a change of heart? You've gotten yourself _this_ far, haven't you? I practically handed you every opportunity, and you didn't take a single one." He stepped closer still, until he could feel the cold metal against his forehead. "Do it, Adalia."

* * *

     _Do it. Gods above, just do it already_.

     He was practically _begging_ her to pull the trigger, and yet she couldn't move. She was solid stone, and her finger wouldn't budge. She blinked. This was real. It was truly happening. He stood before her, with his head pressed to her pistol, telling her to kill him, and by all right, she should. He deserved it. This was what she came for. This moment.

     "I hate you," she spat, trembling, tears threatening to fall.

     "I _love_ you," he returned, and she growled. "More than you will ever know."

     "How can you say that?! How can you possibly love me, Logan?! You are vile, demented, cruel, and you are everything that is wrong with Albion! People like you, and Reaver...and bloody hobbes!"

     "Hobbes?" he repeated, furrowing his brow. "Reaver, I understand, for the man is rather distasteful, I agree. But hobbes? Why do you hate hobbes?"

     "Try being trapped in the Hole with them some time, you'll understand why," she said, then held her pistol arm a little straighter, squaring her shoulders. "Men like you are _incapable_ of love, Logan. Whatever love we shared is long gone."

     "So do it then, Adalia. Do what you came here tonight to do, and kill me."

     Her heart pounded in her ears. For a second, it was not Logan she pointed a gun at. It was Lydia. Those were Lydia's eyes. Her sweet little girl's eyes. She was pointing a gun at her murderous brother, but she was also pointing it at Lydia's father. She could tell herself otherwise all she wanted, but yet it remained the truth. Gods, she couldn't do it, could she?

     Her hand dropped, and her arm hung loosely at her side.

     "I can't," she lamented, as unshed tears blurred her vision. "I-I just can't."

     She felt her pistol drop to the floor.

     "Why?" she heard him ask. She sobbed.

     "Just because, Logan," she bit out. "Because I don't want you to die. Not like this. I'd rather face you in battle than end it this way. You may be a cold, heartless beast, but not I. I can't kill you. Not like this, Logan, not like this. I'm sorry. I should never have come-"

     She didn't resist when she felt him rush to her, wrapping his arms around her, squeezing her tightly in his embrace. She cried into his shoulder. All the strength, the willpower she thought she possessed, all this time agonizing over everything he'd done, and yet still, she couldn't bring herself to take his life. He was right, she'd been given every opportunity, and at any point in time he could've alerted his guard, and had her apprehended, but he didn't. 

     And when she held the gun to his head, he practically begged her to, pleading with his eyes as if she'd release him from his burden of guilt. As if he actually felt remorse for his actions. Did he?

     She stiffened when she felt him passionately kiss her jaw, then her neck, just below her ear. She pulled away.

     "Stop, Logan," she murmured, rejecting the inappropriate contact.

     "Stay with me," he pleaded. "Stay, just for tonight. That's all I ask. Just one night, Adalia."

     "You can't ask that of me," she said, but he shushed her.

     "If you stay with me tonight, you can leave the castle in the morning with no recourse. No one will ever know you were here. I promise. Please just stay. Just one more night. That's all I want."

     He left a trail of kisses across her cheek before he found her lips, and swept her into an even deeper kiss, and all sense left her. Though her mind said it was wrong, her heart kept telling her it was right, and she didn't know why. It was very, very wrong. But it still felt so very heavenly. Before she knew it, her arms slipped around his neck, and pulled him closer. He was evil, wasn't he? Using her honor, her care for him against her?

     "I still hate you," she said. "You have a lot to answer for."

     "I know," he told her, "But I had good reason to do everything I've done."

     He lifted her into his arms and feverishly kissed her chest, and she felt him tumble backward onto the bed. She fell with him, and felt his hands go under her skirt, then caress her thighs, tugging at her undergarment. 

     "You have a lot of explaining to do," she said. "The executions, the taxes, forcing children to work? And Elliot? Major Swift? Why, Logan?!"

     He groaned in frustration, grabbed her, flipped her over, and slammed her down onto the bed beneath him.

     "You've been out into the world, and yet you've still come home an ignorant child," he spat. "You want to hate someone, Adalia? Hate Reaver. Hate him, hate his company, and hate everything he does down in Bowerstone. But don't hate me. I had no choice but to allow these things to happen. The sacrifices they make are for their benefit. I'm trying to protect them, and all they've done is turn against me. If I didn't make the choices I made, I wouldn't have been able to..."

     "Able to what?" she asked, when he stopped talking, and just stared down at her. "Able to what, Logan?!"

     "It doesn't matter," he said. "You'll understand soon enough. I've been too long without you, Adalia. I can't take more."

     "Dammit, Logan-"

     He kissed the argument right out of her, and at first, she thought to protest, but her body had other plans. She was hot all over, hot with need, a feeling she hadn't felt in so very long, and now she was overwhelmed by it. She hadn't allowed a man to touch her since the night they shared, hadn't allowed herself such intimacy. Not when she knew it would only serve to remind her of him. And she wanted him. Badly. Needed him, craved him beyond reasoning. 

     She'd argue with him later, but at the moment, she angrily ripped his armored vest off, then his shirt to shreds in haste, and threw it on the floor. Her Heroic strength surprised him, Gods only knew what he would think if he were to see her use magic. She overpowered him, pushing him back down on the bed, assuming control of the affair.

     He didn't protest, but instead tore at her dress with equal fervor, tearing away at the bodice until she was topless above him, rising up to capture her naked breast in his mouth, and she let out a sigh, melting at the touch. He felt so good underneath of her, gripping her tightly, trembling, just as much as she, just as desperate. He pulled away, and reached up to pluck the mask from her face, then stared into her eyes, as if he had something he wanted to say, but words wouldn't form.

     "Tell me you have some form of contraception in this room," she inquired, while her mind still possessed enough clarity to remember. He nodded, then lifted her off of him, searching a dresser. She hastily removed the rest of her clothing, before she thought better, even removing the wig she wore, revealing short, wavy locks underneath, hearing him snort when he saw it.

     "Why ever did you cut your hair?" he asked.

     "Because it's my hair, and I'll do as I please with it, if you must know," she answered. 

     He made no reply, only smirked, and merely shirked his boots, one after the other, then began to undo his trousers, letting them fall to the floor, joining her on the bed. She pushed him down and straddled him, once more assuming control. After a moment to prepare himself, she let him guide himself in, but after that, every movement was her own. He was helpless beneath her, gripping her tightly as she rode him, completely at her mercy. 

     Part of her wanted to rush through it, get it over with, but he felt so good inside of her, so hard, filling her completely, and she struggled with the blatantly obvious feeling before her. That he felt so perfect, like he was right where he belonged. Like he was hers. He belonged to her, and only her, and would only ever.

     He sat up and kissed her like a madman, clinging to her, thrusting into her, matching her rhythm. She whimpered into his mouth, tangling her fingers in his hair, tugging it, anxious for release. Before she realized what was happening, he cupped her bottom, lifted them both, and flipped them over, slamming her down onto the bed, taking control. He bucked hard, reaching under her leg and pulling it higher, thrusting deeper than she thought possible, causing shameful moans to escape her mouth.

     "I love you, Adalia," he said to her, burying his face in her neck. 

     Hallow words. He was a madman, a lunatic, and perhaps in his own twisted way he _thought_ he did, for whatever reason, he convinced himself that what he did was out of love, but it wasn't. He didn't. He couldn't. He just couldn't. But then again, neither could she. She was mad as well, wasn't she? She had to be. No sane person would do what she did, would they? No normal person would succumb to such desire. 

     "Tell me you love me," he begged. "Lie if you have to, I don't care. Just tell me. Please."

     "I do love you, Logan," she whimpered, feeling him squeeze her tighter then, and for the remainder of the night, she listened to him whisper words of love to her as they made some of their own, sinking further and further into madness, and darkness, as they danced like the shadows cast by candlelight. 

     Ignoring the way the shadows watched them both, taking shape, lingering on the cusp of taking form, with eyes and fangs, clawing their way into the hearts of the wicked. Praying on the fears of the innocent and just.

* * *

     She was gone when he awoke, and Logan was certain the whole thing had been a dream at first. No evidence of her left behind. Not a single clue that she ever came to a party, wearing a mask, aiming to get him alone, to kill him, but finding that she couldn't, and instead gave in to her unwanted feelings. Surely it had been a dream. For surely, if she truly loved him, she wouldn't have left him like she did, even though he spent most of the night begging her to stay. Pleading in her ear as he made passionate love to her, until the lights burned low, and neither could move.

     No, it wasn't a dream. He felt like he'd been beaten with a sledgehammer. Though he hadn't a drop of drink, he felt hungover. Adalia had overpowered him, and even slapped him to the floor at one point in the affair. It remembered all of it quite well. He was no match for her, in their brief tussle, wrestling for that pistol of hers. And then the sex? It was mind numbing bliss, from start to end, but her power over him left scars.

     Reluctantly the King of Albion rose from bed and dressed, his mind in a fog, absently reaching for his flask nearby as he played over and over in his head the night before.

     She hated him. Or so she'd have him believe.

     But he loved her. Everything he did was only ever for her. Every horrid thing he allowed to happen to his country. Every choice he regretted making, that caused him to be so openly despised by his people. But he had to do it. If he did not, he would not be able to protect them. One pawn misplaced on a board and the king would fall. If Logan fell, than so would his kingdom, he had come to believe.

     Until he saw his first glimpse of the Queen that stepped out of the shadows, ready to topple the King of Albion. Checkmate.

     Learning that his dear, sweet Adalia had all the makings of a Hero? It changed everything. Logan could never awaken a Heroic ability within himself, could not unlock the sercets their father kept. So he'd been forced to pass harsh restrictions on his subjects, and enforce his policy through violence, for it was the only way to ensure their obedience. All that, in order to fund the army needed to defeat the oncoming threat. It had been his only option.

     Until Adalia left. Her appointed destiny changed everything.

     And now, he was not so sure that it was his destiny to defeat the coming darkness. It was possible that task was now hers. He had every intention of discussing it with her, telling her the truth, the following morning, but it was too late. She was already gone. He had been so stupid, so careless, knowing full well he should've been honest with her from the start. But would she have believed him? She seemed as convinced as any other that he was the evil Albion needed rid of. And if memory served him correct, she called him demented, of all things. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was demented, and cruel, and everything else she called him that night...But he had every reason to be.

     She would return, of that he was certain, but he had this inescapable feeling that it would not be to join him. She made it clear when she didn't choose him, and instead ran back to the rats in the sewers that called themselves the Resistance.

     War was coming to Bowerstone, sooner than he anticipated. As he carried on about his duties that morning, he was warned of increased activity of the so called Bowerstone Resistance that day. It seemed they were preparing for something, though he couldn't be sure precisely what they planned. He called for every guard to be on high alert, particularly for the Hero of Brightwall, and if she was spotted anywhere in the city, he wanted to know first and foremost.

     She couldn't bring herself to kill him directly, didn't have the heart to take his life, so without a doubt, she'd have her allies take him out. So he counted on it. Keeping his sword at his side, and his pistol fully loaded.

     Damn them both, for all eternity. This would end in blood. Either his...

     ...Or hers.

* * *

     Logan retired to the war room that evening and poured himself a drink. He wasn't alone. A rather tall, thin individual, with a striking top hat, and a small tattoo of a heart on his cheek, was also in the room. A gentleman by the name of Reaver, though 'gentleman' was hardly a word to use for a man like him. Not a curly strand of black hair out of place, his white tux perfectly pressed, with eyes that bore through a person, right into their soul. He had requested audience with his King that night, and though usually undeterred by the man, Logan was hardly in the mood to hear Reaver's obnoxious tone of voice.

     "You're looking tired, friend," Reaver commented behind him, tapping his cane on the floor. "And rather _old_ , but do pardon my honesty, Your Majesty."

     Logan turned to see him smiling a rather devious smile.

     "And you haven't aged a day," Logan said dryly.

     "I use a cream," he joked.

     "What calls you to seek audience with me at such a late hour?" the King asked, ignoring the attempt at humor. Reaver leaned his head to the side, running a thumb over the pommel of his cane, eyeing Logan for a moment before answering.

     "I met your sister," he said nonchalantly. "She's quite the character, I must say. She recently crashed a party of mine, and proved to be much better entertainment than the usual degenerates that attend my affairs." He smirked devilishly. "I find it unbelievable that such a beautiful and astounding creature such as her is related to _you_ ," he reamed sarcastically. Logan ignored it. But what he wouldn't give to be able to kill him.

     "But you didn't manage to kill her," Logan remarked, outwardly hardened stone, inwardly reveling in this fact, evident by the night before, and Reaver's subtle, masked irratation. She was still alive, and very hard to kill. A lot stronger than he ever remembered her being. He was...quite proud of her, in truth.

     "No. I didn't, sadly. She's proving to be quite the Hero as of late." Reaver raised a brow as he spoke. "She demolished a rather vicious pack of balverines with... _magic_. Oh, do you know how long it's been since I was graced with a Hero's magical display?" He sighed in his nostalgia. "I daresay it was lovely...These rebels will be tough to handle if they have someone of her ability on their side. Word on the street is they rally behind her. And she maneuvers to overthrow you, Your Majesty." 

     He leaned back against the leather sofa behind him, then flopped down in it, swinging his legs up, an unassuming expression on his face, making Logan grit his teeth at how comfortable the man made himself with his furniture.

     "My soldiers are more than capable of handling the traitors," Logan stated evenly as he walked over to the map and eyed it, running a hand along the border of the table, as he circled it.

     "Oh I'm sure, but...can they handle a Hero?" Reaver asked. "Perhaps you would like me to-"

     "No," Logan interjected.

     "No?" Reaver raised a brow.

     "No," Logan repeated. "They'll show themselves eventually...And as for my sister...I will handle her personally."

     "Very well then, Your Majesty. Suit yourself. But if you should need-"

     "If I should need your skill, I know where to find you." Logan looked up, seeing Reaver's lip curl upward in just the slightest smile. 

     A rumble beneath their feet interrupted the conversation. An earthquake, most likely an explosion's after effects felt within the castle. Likely it came from the Industrial quarter. Guards appeared at the door just then.

     "Your Majesty, down at the docks. Someone's targeting the fleet, we've lost three ships already, sir," one of the guards said to him. "It's the rebels," he added.

     "Oh goody," Reaver reveled behind him. "Just when I thought this revolution would never kick off," he gleamed.

     "Send your men after them," Logan said as he glanced back at Reaver. "And see that Reaver is escorted back to his estate," he added, his words signaling the man's cue to make himself scarce.

     With that he tore from the room, and briskly down the hall, then exited the castle. Once outside he tore through the courtyard, then scaled the wall. From there he could view the port, pulling a small brass telescope from his person and extending it, scanning the scene below. They'd managed to take three of his steam powered frigates, demolished in the explosion that Logan could feel all the way up at Bowerstone's castle, which meant no doubt someone had managed to break into the gunpowder stores. Logan would bet his life Beck was to blame, the bloody traitor. It was a distraction, most likely. 

     He scanned the docks, at first seeing nothing but the garrison of soldiers he sent, making their way to the docks to assist the men already present. They no doubt heavily outnumbered the traitors, but knowing his sister, and her level of dexterity, who somehow managed to outwit Reaver of all people, she'd have the guards on their backs in no time if she were there. He continued searching through the telescope until he spotted her. To no surprise, in the company of Walter Beck, and Ben Finn. Why, even that mangy mutt of hers was tearing after her, headed to the nearest vessel. High jacking one of his ships?

     That didn't mean what he thought it meant, did it? No, surely not. Surely she wasn't about to do what he thought she was doing. He expected her to launch an attack on Bowerstone, but...Surely she was not about to attempt sailing to Aurora. Gods, she'd never return. There were things that waited there that not even Heroes could withstand, not on their own, and not with one highjacked ship and only two traitorous fools at their back. He knew this for a fact. And she wasn't immortal. Sudden fear struck him.

     Heroes _can_ die, you know.


End file.
